


the stars at the edge of the sea

by unhappyrefrain



Series: peacemakers' ballad [2]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Day At The Beach, Dragon Shenanigans, Friendship, Gen, Genderfluid Gran/Djeeta, Holding Hands, Identity Issues, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Self-Discovery, Sharing a Room, Stargazing, Surfing, Swimming, Vacation, alternate outfits GO, existential plurality, give us summer sanchan please cygames, mentions of trauma, meteor showers, of a sort, sandalphon is like a cat. he is scared of water, the peacemaker's float makes a reappearance, weird conceptions of self when you were once the grand order of the universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 00:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15108104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappyrefrain/pseuds/unhappyrefrain
Summary: “Well, then... maybe you can take someone else with you? Just one person? Vacations are more fun with more people!”And this is how you and Zooey end up stranded on Auguste with reservations at an oceanside resort for an indeterminate amount of time. You have one room, two single beds, one suitcase worth of clothes, and two very mischievous dragons. You’re not sure this is going to go well.(Sandalphon and Zooey take a much-needed vacation in Auguste; or, the Beach Episode™ with a side of made-up lore and existential plurality that no one asked for.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is so funny bc i wrote the last chapter of this fic first as a stand-alone but then realized i would have to back it up with the beach episode first and i couldn't publish it BEFORE i finished that, which was going to happen in the series anyway, and then the part 1 of that fic became a 10k word MONSTER which i'm having to split up into THREE parts now, and this all came from a 3.5k word oneshot about watching a meteor shower. wow. okay
> 
> i'm writing more platonic sanzooey than i write lucisan lately because lucisan makes me very sad and these two make me very happy and i'd rather be happy. sorry @ my readers who are just here for the lucisan please bear with me while i stave off my depression for a little while longer
> 
> also HAHA i wrote the meteor shower bit while xeno ifrit was still on and ended up making up some ridiculous lore about xeno clashes in-universe, and now xeno ifrit is long over and this feels not up to date. but ok. anyway here's wonderwall

The Grandcypher lands in Auguste at midday, when the sun is a high beacon directly above the mast, and the sails flutter with a wind that isn’t of the high sky, but smells of salt and sand. You’ve been awake for a while; the kitchen was bustling early this morning, and it was the sound of cheering and then the shattering of something porcelain that had you stumbling out of bed, eyebags and all, to check if someone had broken one of your coffee cups. Fortunately, this was not the case. Unfortunately, Rackam had noticed you and had coerced you into helping clean it up before you could escape.

The entire ship is running on a lively, nervous energy, the likes of which you’ve only seen before in preparations for the monthly Guild Wars. The Singularity is somewhere between names and genders, their hair the scraggly brown mess that usually means _Gran, he, his_ but with the casual pink and white blouse dress and hairband that means _Djeeta, she, her_. Upon greeting them you default to _Singularity,_ the term you’ve mostly used to keep your distance despite their insistence, before interrupting yourself and then outright stammering when you can’t figure out which name to use. They don’t seem to know either. You shrug and call them Captain instead. They seem satisfied with this.

When you emerge from the lower floors and meet Lyria on the deck, you notice you’re on course to Auguste, its huge pools of clear blue water and spires of white chalky rock glimmering below you. “We’re going to the beach!” she cheers, then does a barefoot sort of twirling dance around the deck with Vyrn, who seems a little less excited about being flung around in midair like some sort of stuffed animal. “Captain told me the water team and the earth team have something really important to do, but the rest of us are on vacation!”

“Vacation?” You raise an eyebrow. “That doesn’t really sound like them at all.”

“Well, I don’t really get it either, but they said that there’s a strong primal beast that has changed form, and that only the water teams should fight it. So the rest of us can relax! Of course, I have to go too, so I’ll tell you all about it when we come back.”

“Hm.” You don’t really know what to think. The prospect of vacation is a little unfamiliar— maybe a little intimidating. It feels childish and unnecessary; there’s so much else you could be doing, so many people you need to protect. But taking a well-earned break could be nice. And you know someone who deserves a vacation more than anyone else right now.

“You should go to the beach! Auguste’s really well known for its beaches. It’s the only place in Phantagrande that has an ocean, so it’s a really special experience.” Lyria grabs your arm and tugs on it. You give her a look, but you’ve learned by now not to shake her off. “Ohhh, I’m so jealous already... Maybe once we’re done with all the battles, everyone can meet up and have a beach day together!”

You shudder to imagine it. “No thanks. I’d much rather go alone. A crowded beach wouldn’t be much of a vacation for me at all.”

“Well, then... maybe you can take someone else with you? Just one person? Vacations are more fun with more people!”

 

And this is how you and Zooey end up stranded on Auguste with reservations at an oceanside resort for an indeterminate amount of time. You have one room, two single beds, one suitcase worth of clothes, and two very mischievous dragons. You’re not sure this is going to go well.

 

* * *

 

The first night is the worst. Adjusting to sleeping in a new place still brings you anxiety, and you know it’s definitely something left over from your time in the labs or in Pandemonium, you’re not sure which. But when you’re under an unfamiliar ceiling, you’re always skittish, sleepless and prone to nightmares when you do sleep. You don’t think Zooey knows this about you, unfortunately, and you don’t get the opportunity to tell her; the moment she settles into her bed and turns out the light, she’s out before you can even tell her a proper good night.

You toss and turn. You wonder what you’re going to do tomorrow. You wonder about all the things that could go wrong tomorrow, or even tonight. You feel the shivering fear creeping into the corners of your vision, faster than you can stop it, and you curl into yourself, and every time you close your eyes you have to open them again, lest images of blood and stone and Lucifer’s head in your hands flood your lack of vision. There’s a small nightlight in the corner of your room. You focus on that.

Dyrn and Lyrn are curled up at the foot of Zooey’s bed, one draped onto the other, both snuffling in some sort of tiny dragon-snore. The noise keeps you awake, but it’s less annoying than it is constant, soothing almost, like the purr of a cat, or a lover’s breathing beside you. Zooey doesn’t move. You close your eyes, trying to focus on the sound, but your skin prickles with restlessness, and you turn over again. You bury your face into the pillow, frustrated, and groan quietly to interrupt your own thoughts.

A soft trill from Zooey’s bed snaps you back into reality, and you raise your head, freeing up one ear. The sound of little nails scraping against sheets, and then one of the dragons sniffs a gentle breath of flame, lighting the room for a moment. It hops around the bed for a few seconds; Zooey doesn’t seem to wake, so the dragon, evidently a bit more courageous, flaps its wings and leaps across to your bed, landing in a pile against your leg under the covers.

“What do you think you’re doing,” you say, under your breath. The dragon— Lyrn, from the ribbon tied in a neat bow onto its tail— makes a gentle trill, and ventures like a wary cat further up until it reaches your pillow. Then it curls up next to your head, snuffling a soft whistle of a breath. You extract your hand from under the covers and search for its head in hopes of petting; it nips at you playfully when you prod its little mouth instead, and you bop it gently on the nose, scolding, before you search out its forehead and stroke between the horns with one finger. Its scales are cool and smooth to the touch; it huffs happily and butts its head further into your hand.

“Cute,” you say, warmly. Lyrn chirrups, then rolls over onto its back like a particularly trusting cat. It stays there, pressing its head against your hand, and you keep petting it, running your thumb over its stubby little horns and scritching under its chin every so often. You know Zooey’s dragons are technically a part of her, a manifestation of her power, and it makes sense that they’d be able to sense your distress and want to comfort you when Zooey is unable to do so. Lyrn’s dragon-purring soothes you. Having it curled up next to you is a comfort not unlike having Zooey herself there. The same energy, the same shade of blue.

You manage sleep eventually, Lyrn still purring in your ear.

But it does not treat you well.

 

* * *

 

In dreams you are in the garden. The hidden sanctuary behind the white walls, the only place you can ever be safe. You dream of this place often. Sometimes they are kind; sometimes this is a miniature world, shrunk to the size of a jewelry box, a place where reality disappears and you can be with him once again. But other times (most times) this is a nightmare, lock and key, and you open the box to find jaws that could tear you apart, and you lose all hope of being swallowed whole.

In the garden today is hell. Whatever you fell towards, then: that is what this is. You sit in a chair that feels like hot iron. The foliage twists and snarls into eyes and teeth and masses of snakes, making horrific rattling sounds, rustling and skittering and moving in patterns and motions that make you wince, shiver, close your eyes. Across the table from you is a headless body. The coffee in your cup has an oily rainbow sheen, and its surface is trembling. You can’t speak. Your body is frozen. There is a shaking coming up from the deepest parts of the ground. It is ripping through the island, it is splitting the stone and shearing the once-perfect garden in two. An apple falls from a tree overhead, and lands on the severed neck, twists itself into place as a head, but it isn’t Lucifer. The Astral—

_Sandalphon is useless._

— stares at you with vague amusement. He reaches across the table, lifting your chin with his index finger, examining your features, your failures. You can’t move; you want to shove him away, you want to recoil, but the tremors have you paralyzed. Then both hands lunge for you, his mouth opens to form a red halo, burning its way into your eyes— then there are more hands, reaching out for you, black with shadow and all gripping fingers, crawling with malice ready to imprint itself upon your body, enough hands to choke out the sun—

 

you close your eyes—

 

gentle blue light falls from a break in the writhing trees above, then illuminates the bleak darkness behind your eyelids. You blink yourself open to see it flooding the table, casting your shadow over the coffee cup, an azure outline traced onto the marble. You feel warm, soft hands on your shoulders; Lucilius’ cold touch recedes, repulsed and withdrawing from the kindness, the cascade of blue. Arms around you from behind, draping over you, pulling you close.

_Do not touch him. You have no right to touch him._

The voice is Zooey’s, but not quite. It is grave and powerful the way that Zooey herself can only approximate now. This is Grand Order, shielding you from harm, its power overflowing as a fountain across these skies; but the touch belongs to Zooey. Its light—  _their_ light, combined— floods the nightmarish landscape, blotting out even Lucilius’ form across from you. You can see him recoil, holding his hands up to his face, directly scalded by it. But with it behind you, it is nothing but warmth and stability.

_Fear not. We are with you._

The Peacemaker’s Wings enfold you, all blue feathers like the twilight. You are vaguely reminded of another cocoon. Grand Order whispers in your ear, but you can’t tell what it’s saying. Whatever the words are, they sound like comfort; they are made in the shape of protection. The garden melts away, with all its hissing snakes and gnarled thorns, and you are drifting up, now, enveloped in such kind wings, towards the stratosphere, towards the surface.

 

You wake. The warmth does not fade. Lyrn is curled up by your face, as it had been when you fell asleep, but that isn’t what woke you. Zooey is wrapped around you from behind, her arm draped over you, her breath gentle and nearly inaudible, warming a singular spot between your shoulder blades. You let out a waking sigh. She pushes her head into your back.

“When did you get into my bed?”

“The moment I realized you were having a nightmare.” Zooey’s voice is muffled, but insistent. “Did I manage to bring you out?”

“Yes. You were there, in the end... you took me away from that place.”

“Mm. I’m glad,” she says, then sighs out a breath into your back. You expect her to leave, with her job done, but instead she tucks herself closer to you, shuffling around under the covers a little before stilling. You feel her yawn.

“Aren’t you going to go back to your own bed?”

“I don’t feel like it. You’re warm.”

You’re not awake enough to refuse.

 

When you wake up for real, you will share a look with her, and speak of it to no one; it will be a glance that details everything, like the moment you finish writing the page and, satisfied, close the book for another day. An acknowledgment of what was between you, without further processing, without words left to search for.

 

* * *

 

You hadn’t had much time to walk around the place yesterday; you were too exhausted from your early wake-up time and interacting with resort staff and unpacking your bags and all the other trappings of travel that you spent the rest of the evening in the room. Zooey had gone out that afternoon, presumably to find snacks and toiletries and other necessities for the room, and had come back with one bag of groceries and two large shopping bags from what might have been a department store. The villa has a kitchenette, but you have a feeling no one is going to be cooking; there’s a coffeemaker, though, and you didn’t have the foresight to bring a kettle and filters and all your coffee paraphernalia, so this will do for now.

Today you have time (and energy, after your cup of morning coffee) to spend out of the room, so you and Zooey resolve to leave the resort and explore Mizarea City itself. The place is, for lack of a better word, expensive. Zooey enters an ice cream parlor with 2000 rupies and leaves with what looks like a kiddie scoop and pocket change. Just looking into the windows of the boutiques on the lower layers of the city makes your wallet hurt. You don’t know the price per night of the resort you’re staying at, because the Singularity is paying for it, and you’re not sure you want to know.

But it _is_ breathtaking. The city, with all its delicate arches, intricate marble work, and cascades of green over its balconies, is quite a destination, and the novelty of it is only further amplified by the ubiquitous boats that navigate the canals, the water on which the city was built. You would much prefer to walk around, since you’re a little paranoid about these tiny, rickety vessels and their seaworthiness, but Zooey is already sitting expectantly in a boat by the time you’re setting out, every single time.

“We need to see the sights while we’re here,” she says. She’s at the helm of the boat, looking out onto the riverfront like she’s the captain of her very own airship. You wonder how she manages to look so fascinated at absolutely _everything_. “This isn’t something you get to do every day. Oh, look at the bridge! Look up,” she insists, turning back towards you and nearly unbalancing the small boat with the force of her movement. Lyrn makes a squawking noise, shaken off from her shoulder. You yelp, nearly losing track of the oars in the scramble to right the vessel once again.

“I can’t look, I’m the one doing all the rowing!”

“Haha, sorry...” Zooey settles back down, a little bashful, and her dragons regain their places on each of her shoulders. “Hey, let’s get off here, just for a moment. I heard the bridge was special, so we should see it close up.”

“What’s so special about it?” you ask, but you’re already pushing one oar against the current to turn the boat towards the nearest pier. It’s easier to look up when you’re finally on semi-dry land again, and once you and Zooey climb out, you finally get a glimpse of the bridge. It’s larger and a little more decorative than the other more utilitarian bridges around the city, with panels of white frosted glass in curved triangle patterns, but otherwise it doesn’t seem particularly marvelous.

“I heard,” Zooey says, like she’s sharing a secret with you, “that it’s called the Bridge of Wishes, and that if you cross it while the sun is setting, your wish will come true.” She smiles, soft and radiant, at that. “It would be nice to hear and grant all those wishes. But it’s not sunset yet. We should come back then.”

Your eyes linger on the shape of it above you. Birds have made their nests in the eaves under the bridge, and you can hear the echoes of their songs, against the water and between the buildings. You wonder how many wishes have been granted here. What they could be.

“What, did you want to make a wish as well?”

“Mm, no. I _am_ a wish. Or, we were. But I thought maybe you would want to.” Zooey smiles knowingly at you. You sigh, looking away, then down at your feet.

“I’ve done enough wishing.”

 _All I can do now is wait_ , you think. But you don’t say it. You don’t think Zooey is particularly listening; she doesn’t respond, only pulls at your sleeve and leads you back to the boat. You realize you’ve been staring, as if the bridge itself could grant your wish if you looked hard enough. You imagine yourself crossing it, in the tender-fleshed orange light of the sunset over the water, and meeting him there, arms open, speaking your name like his last words had become his first, on the other side.

 

* * *

 

After all of Lyria’s insistence, you still haven’t gone to the beach yet. Baruha Beach is just downstream, just before the canals empty out into the ocean, and it’s easy enough to get there. The problem lies in the fact that Zooey insists you need a swimsuit, and every single store in Mizarea has the potential to drive you into debt.

“Come on, I’m sure we can find _something,_ ” she pleads, tugging at your wrist. You sigh, weakly shaking her off, but her grip is tight. “You can’t wear your armor to the beach! Aren’t you going to come swimming?”

“I’ve never swam before. I’m not sure if I can,” you admit, grudgingly.

“Well, you don’t have to _swim,_ the water is nice and shallow. You can just… splash around?” Then she giggles. “Okay, maybe the image of you splashing around is a bit… silly. But you can’t go to the beach looking like _that._ ”

“Like what? Like a reasonable person?”

“You’ll get sand in your breastplate! And even if you just wear your hoodie, you’ll get hot too easily. All you need is a pair of swim trunks and—”

“I am _not_ wearing just that.”

“...And you could wear a linen shirt as well? If you don’t like showing skin?” Zooey strokes her chin, before her eyes light up with realization. “Oh! Korwa’s on vacation too, since she’s not with the water and earth teams. I could get her to design you something.”

You can’t believe you’re agreeing to this. “Only if I don’t have to pay for it.”

 

* * *

 

After a grueling ordeal involving measuring tape and removal of almost all of your clothes, and given the span of a day and a half, which you spend dragging Zooey around while you wander the city for a good enough coffeehouse, Korwa drops by your room while you’re out to deliver the promised outfit. You unlock the door to find it lying folded neatly on the bed, Dyrn curled up like a cat on top of it, and Lyrn hopping in circles around it like it’s some sort of ritual fire.

You’re not quite sure how Korwa got into the room in the first place, but these dragons _need to go._

Once Zooey has removed all draconic obstacles, you finally unfold the clothes and hold them up in front of you for examination. It’s a simple pair of black swim trunks and an orange-yellow short sleeved hoodie, and you’re surprised at how comfortable it looks, and even _more_ surprised when you put it on and it’s even _more_ comfortable than you imagined. You don’t think to put the hood up; it’s familiar enough just resting at the back of your neck that you don’t feel too out of place. When you emerge from the bathroom, Zooey has already changed into her own swimsuit, and upon seeing you her face breaks into a wide, joyful smile. You suddenly regret wearing this just a little bit less.

“You look so good!” she exclaims, her hands behind her back as she leans in, and examines the fabric between her fingers. “Oh, it’s so soft… Korwa is so talented, isn’t she? Speaking of which, how do I look?”

You take a step back. The halter top has a wing design, which you admittedly favor, and the lightweight coverup, halfway shrugged off her shoulder, has a certain nautical charm, as does the blue and white striped skirt. It’s certainly a nice outfit, and your lack of attraction to women makes it easier to evaluate objectively, but… all things considered…

You raise one eyebrow.

“It looks nice,” you say, “but how does it even stay on?”

“Girls’ secret!” She winks. “You’d be surprised.”

“I really don’t know how you do it. It looks like even moving the slightest bit could cause a... mishap.”

“It is a little ridiculous, isn’t it? I was surprised, too. But it stays on no matter what I do. I wonder if it’s magic?” She scoots over to the mirror and combs her fingers through her hair, which has gotten fluffy and frizzy from the salt sea air. “Ohh, there’s something missing, though... And I can’t find my flip-flops.”

You take a quick look around the room; something out of place catches your eye in the corner next to the door, where Lyrn is chewing on something that looks suspiciously like said flip-flop. “Found them.”

“Where? Oh. You little… stop messing around.” She flicks the offending dragon on the nose. It sneezes a flame at her. “Hey!”

“It’s like we need to dragon-proof everything around here,” you chuckle. “Hold on. You said something was missing?”

“Mmhm. And I don’t know what. Some sort of final touch?” Zooey finally extracts the battered flip-flop from Lyrn’s mouth. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Wouldn’t anything else just get in the way,” you sigh. But you _do_ have an idea. “Just wait here. Make sure the door doesn’t lock behind me.”

You slip through the door as quietly as possible, making sure neither of the dragons notice and take the opportunity to escape. Zooey says something as the door closes behind you, but you don’t hear it. You stay on the porch; just outside the villa, there is a hibiscus tree in a terracotta pot, and you pluck the reddest bloom from its branches. You hope no one will mind. Flowers always grow back, after all.

When you return to the room, Zooey is sitting on the bed, brushing through her long hair and yanking a bit frustratedly at the tangles. “Here,” you say, showing her the flower, and her face lights up.

“It’s perfect! Sandalphon, thank you so much,” she breathes, dropping the paddle brush and reaching out to take the bloom from your hands. You don’t really notice you’re already leaning down and pushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear to tuck the flower behind it until she freezes, then leans ever so slightly into the touch and looks up at you with the kindest, most gentle gaze you’ve ever had directed at you.

You bite your lip, unable to face her. “Sorry.”

“Hehe. You know, you’re a very gentle person. I think more people should know that.” She smiles, and you barely have time to ask where this came from or what she means before she stands up and grabs your wrist, opens the door with her other hand. The bright glare of sunlight floods into the room. “Come on, we’re heading out!”

“Wha— fine!” You reach back desperately for the beach bag sitting on the dresser next to the door before she whisks you out of the room and into the relentless gaze of the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

You _really_ should have brought sunglasses. Everything hurts to look at, and you have to squint or keep one eye awkwardly half-closed to be able to see anything. It’s such a shame when both the sky and the sea are so dazzlingly blue, the kind of blue that wraps its arms around you and soothes your rioting nerves. The kind of blue that you like to imagine the sky as, always.

Zooey doesn’t seem bothered by the light. She’s always been light, really. Her dragons follow behind her obediently as she runs, one of her shoes flying into the air behind her, and Lyrn catches it in its mouth. The sand shifts under your feet as you walk a little ways behind her, carrying the tote bag with the towels and sunscreen and other summer paraphernalia over your shoulder. You don’t feel quite stable on this kind of surface, even with flip-flops on, and yet from what you can feel of the sand, it would burn your feet to stand on. So you drag yourself grudgingly through it, before finally dropping the bag at a suitable camping spot and getting the towels out to spread under you.

“We forgot to put sunscreen on, didn’t we?” Zooey reaches over and rummages through the bag once you’re done unpacking the towels. It doesn’t look like she’s noticed that Lyrn hasn’t returned her shoe. “It won’t be good if it’s not in here.”

“It’s in there. I made sure of it,” you assure her, leaning back on the towel to lie down, draping your forearm across your face to cover your eyes. The rest of the following occurrences you understand only through sound: Lyrn squawks, and you hear Zooey snap a little “hey! Let go of that!” before the offending dragon makes a timid trilling noise and, presumably, drops her shoe. Zooey keeps rummaging; first humming a song she had heard during some street puppet show, then going completely silent as the rustling noises continue. She’s still looking. You sit up, groaning, and roll over towards the bag. “Let me find it.”

“Are you sure you packed it? I’ve been looking everywhere,” she insists, a little frustrated pout surfacing on her face. You find it instantly, pushing aside the extra towels for drying off after swimming and revealing a zip pocket on the side, which contains the elusive sunscreen and— surprisingly— a pair of gold-framed aviators in a magnetic case. You look at her quizzically; she seems distracted with the sunscreen. Both dragons have buried themselves in the sand next to her, rolling around gleefully in the rare and exciting terrain.

“I don’t remember packing sunglasses,” you tell her. Zooey is already shaking the bottle and slathering the lotion onto her arms. “Especially not these. Are these yours?”

She looks up at you. There’s a sort of bashful look on her face. “Umm. I got them for you? Since you’re always squinting. I thought they’d look good on you, and you seemed like you needed them, so...”

You look at the frames, then back at Zooey, who is doing double-duty shyly rubbing the back of her neck and applying sunscreen to it at the same time. You’re not sure whether to thank her or scold her for spending what could have been a fortune on these, and for _you_. They look fashionable. And effective. But you’ve learned to express gratitude, or at least do so before your immediate impulse of distance.

“I... Thank you,” you finally manage, before unfolding them and slipping them on. They feel surprisingly light on the bridge of your nose, and you’re instantly relieved at the shift in visibility. This way, you can see Zooey’s face, as a warm, pleasantly surprised sort of smile spreads across it, pulling her cheeks into those lovable dimples.

“They look great! Hehe, you’re so... fashionable. I didn’t expect that from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You lower your glasses to squint at her over them. She bursts into giggles, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever done. “And how much did these even cost?”

“Sorry, I... just think it’s funny,” she manages, between little snorts of laughter, and returns to her labor of putting on sunscreen. “You’re always so serious, you didn’t even want to wear a swimsuit. But here you are, looking fancy… Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Ladiva and the other girls. They’re always talking about what the handsome men are wearing.”

“And do I fall under that definition of ‘handsome men?’”

“Um, yes?” Zooey raises her eyebrows, like she can’t believe you’re doubting that. “Narmaya said you’re a pretty boy. She said you and Lancelot could be models.”

“What. Why? Models for what?”

“Clothes, of course!” Zooey reaches down to apply sunscreen to her legs, like she’s stretching before a dance. “And Ladiva called you a twink. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds silly.”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” You push your sunglasses back up to avoid any particularly revealing expressions. “Hand me the sunscreen when you’re done. This is too much skin for me, I’ll get burned.”

“Has anyone even asked if primal beasts can get sunburned?” Zooey _hmm_ s, like she’s not putting on sunscreen at this very moment. “Also, I can’t reach my back, so can you help me?”

You blink. It’s not that you’re opposed to touching her, per se, but you’re in public, and people might get the wrong idea. “Uh, isn’t that a little?” Zooey stares at you blankly, like she doesn’t understand. “Never mind. That’s fine. Here, give me that.”

She hands you the bottle of sunscreen and shuffles around so that her back is to you. In the sand outside the refuge of your beach towels, one dragon seems to have taken hold of the other’s tail, and both of them are now making muffled screeching noises at each other, still up to their wings in sand. “You two, knock it off,” Zooey scolds.

You can’t help but roll your eyes as you empty a liberal amount of sunscreen onto your hands and start smoothing it onto her back where it’s not already shiny with lotion. She makes a little _eek_ noise when you touch her skin, and you stop. “What?”

“It was just cold,” she explains, laughing, and you sigh and start rubbing in the sunscreen. Your hands are awkward, and you feel strangely separated from her by some sort of barrier, a layer of hesitancy between your hands and her skin. This would feel natural, you think, if there weren’t other people watching and assuming things. Next time you’ll have to tell her to put it on in the room first before you go out. Who knows how burned you already are, anyway.

When you’re done, she turns around and laughs a little “thanks!” before reaching over to extract a very annoyed-looking dragon from the sand and set it in her lap. You start applying your own sunscreen; compared to Zooey, you only have your arms and legs to cover, and you silently thank Korwa for at least giving you the option of a shirt. There’s a hood, too, which you know will also keep the sun off your face, so you flip it up, somewhat pleased, until Zooey turns back around and her eyes immediately widen and she dissolves into a mess of laughter.

“What! What’s so funny this time? Am I that burnt already?” You throw up your hands, exasperated, and Zooey’s chin drops to her chest, her shoulders shaking, before she falls backwards onto the towel with uncontrollable laughter. The dragon sitting between her crossed legs curls up on her thighs instead. “Zooey! Cut it out!”

“Hee hee... ahaha! Oh, Sandalphon, this is so... Pfff _bbfht_ —” She buries her face in her sunscreen-shiny hands. “I wish you could see for yourself. Oh, here, I know!” She reaches right for your face and grabs your sunglasses, ignoring your stammering, then puts them on. “Now look at your reflection in them.”

You look.

You stare. You don’t see anything out of the ordinary. You dip down, and squint. On the top of your hood are two pointed little seams where, presumably, Korwa modified the hood to form cat ears.

“Oh, skies,” you grumble, yanking the hood back down. “Were you in on this?”

“No, I wasn’t,” she insists, waving her hands in front of her face. You stare at her. “I had no idea until you put it up, I promise! Hee hee, it really suits you.” She reaches for your hood again and attempts to flip it back up. You bat her hands away.

“How does it suit me at all?!”

“You’re like a grumpy cat.” She takes your sunglasses off and returns them to you. You look at her incredulously. “You _are!_ ”

“No one’s ever said that before about me.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t. Aren’t cats like that? They’re aloof and skittish, until they find someone they like, and then they’ll be affectionate? But sometimes you’ll be petting them and they’ll just run off, like they’ve suddenly gotten fed up. They’re a lot like you.”

You’ve never thought of it that way before. True, you don’t particularly like being touched too much, and even though you’ve softened up towards the crew in general you still keep at a comfortable enough distance. But affectionate? Even with people you trust, you’re always the one being hugged and laid on and tackled and exposed to all sorts of ridiculous displays of affection. You tell her this, and she shrugs.

“You pet my hair sometimes.”

“Barely!”

“And you’ll fall asleep on me on the couch.”

“You’re the one that falls asleep first!”

Zooey leans herself onto your shoulder. Instinctively, your hand curls around her head to keep her stable.

“See, I told you,” she points out, and you drop your hand. “That’s not fun at all.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything, then.”

Zooey just hums and scratches Dyrn under the chin where it has resumed its residence on her lap. It trills quietly, in that nice purr-like frequency.

“Your dragons are a bit catlike, now that I think about it.”

“You think so?” She continues to pet Dyrn, who continues to purr. “You might be right. They’re also very mischievous. Do cats really like to make trouble that much?”

“They like to knock things off tables.”

“Then that means my dragons are basically scaly cats,” she admits with a laugh. “Big, long, scaly cats.”

“Who can breathe fire.”

“Yes. They can breathe fire.”

 

Applying sunscreen and waiting for it to dry took much longer than it should have, but you’re grateful for the delay, since it gives you time to stall before you’re inevitably dragged into the water. But once Zooey decides that she’s had enough of your waiting around, there’s nothing that can stop her from grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards where the waves lap at the shore. You grimace at the feeling of cold, wet sand between your toes, as you reluctantly lag behind Zooey where she’s standing in the water up to her ankles.

“Haven’t you ever been to a beach before?” she asks you, trying to coax you further towards the water. You shake your head.

“Is it that obvious?”

She laughs, her eyes bright. “It’s okay! I’ve been to the beach before, so I know… uh, the ropes.” She puts her hands on her hips proudly. You stifle a snort. “Did I get the expression wrong?”

“No, you had it right. You just seem proud of the fact that you’ve done something I haven’t.” You take a tentative step closer to the water.

“Well, of course I am,” she says. “It feels nice to know something about skydwellers that someone else doesn’t, since I’m still so clueless in comparison. But you’re the same, aren’t you?”

“In a way,” you admit. “Though I’m still much less clueless than you are.”

Zooey takes another full step in. The water is up to her shins now, but she doesn’t seem halfway bothered about it. You edge a little closer, still recoiling from the cold when the tips of the waves touch your feet and leave the sand soft and sinking between your toes. “You haven’t been swimming either? Not even at a pool?”

You take a deep breath. You remember something at the sensation of the water, lapping there at your toes, at the shores of memory. Does she need to hear it? Maybe not. Is it something you want to say at such an otherwise peaceful moment? Not exactly. But her gaze grows soft. “Do oxygen deprivation experiments count as _going swimming_?” you say, a little bitterly.

Zooey backs up from the water, stands beside you where you balk at the waves. She takes your hand, all soft fingers slightly greasy from sunscreen. “No, they don’t,” she says. “I apologize. I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s fine, you wouldn’t have known.” You sigh, feeling like you’ve ruined something pure and beautiful again. You always do.

“You don’t have to swim if you don’t want to.” She looks worried. You squeeze her hand, with the remainders of courage you have left in you.

“No. It’s better if I just go in and get over it.”

Zooey hums, like she isn’t quite satisfied with your answer. “Don’t think of it as _getting over it_. Think of it as… making something new of it. This is the _real_ first time you’ve felt the water like this.”

“How is that any different?”

“You’re not blaming yourself anymore.” Zooey looks up at you with serious eyes. You shrug. She has a point.

“Fine. Let’s go in together.”

Zooey smiles warmly, without saying anything. She leads you to the place where the water hits your ankles. Your feet sink uncomfortably into the sand, more grainy and rocky here than it was further up. You wince at the cold, and at the coarseness of the stones, the way they press against your feet like boils. You look out onto the blue sky, and take the next step before she does, bringing the water level up to mid-shin. What makes the ocean blue? What makes it so clear here, against the pebbles and the seaglass so worn down it could have never been glass at all? Zooey keeps walking, and you keep walking, and the chill comes to your knees, and touches the hems of your shorts. You take the next step—

and find yourself entirely underwater. The waves are such that they have created a dropoff where one more step can take you up to your shoulders. You weren’t expecting any of this, so of course your knees buckle and you are entirely submerged. Salt water stings your face, your eyes; it seeps down your throat and burns where you swallow it. You surface, coughing, wiping your mouth with your wrist and tasting horrible bitter sunscreen, sticking your tongue out in utter disgust. It’s in your eyes now too, and your sunglasses did nothing to help protect from the water like they do from the sun, and there’s salt drying on them. You splutter disgracefully. You look up at Zooey, in absolute betrayal. Her eyes are wide in worry and guilt, but when she meets your gaze, she flashes a strangely self-sacrificial sort of smile and takes the last step in as well, as emphatically as she can.

Inevitably she sinks below the surface, coming up sniffling water out of her nose and squeezing her eyes half-shut to blink the salt and sunscreen out. She looks just as much a mess as you’re sure you do, just as ruined by the water as you were. But when she sees you, through her red and swollen eyes, she smiles, as if saying _see, it wasn’t so bad when we did it together, right?_

You scoff, then snort, then stifle a laugh. “That... that works, too.”

“I suppose it does.” She looks in remarkably good humor for such a messy reappearance. And after all that sunscreen, too. The water doesn’t seem nearly as cold, though, now that you’re up to your shoulders in it. You notice her hibiscus flower is floating away— you reach over to grab it, still up to your shoulders in the water, and tuck it back behind her ear. Her hair is wet and heavy, but in the water behind her it flows like strands of sterling silver, as if it was malleable enough to pull so thin that it could create threads. Like molten hot metal drizzling itself into thin skeins of light.

“We should wipe our faces off, at least,” you suggest. She nods, and emerges from the water, scampering back to your base camp and returning with the towels you brought in case of swimming. You drag yourself up from the dropoff, back where the waves lap at ankle-height. Your hoodie is weighted now with water, clinging to your torso in ways that seem more revealing than taking it off entirely. You pull at the hem, shaking it out. Zooey hands you a towel, and you rub your face into it, clearing your stinging eyes of dripping seawater and sunscreen.

“Ugh. Disgusting,” you groan into the fabric. She makes a disappointed sound into her own towel.

“I forgot it did that,” she says, removing the hibiscus from her hair before ruffling her face and bangs with the towel. You remove yours from your face and bear witness to Zooey in a strange, surreal sort of state. Her large tuft of flippy hair that usually rests like a crown on the top of her head is soaked down, nothing but another layer of long bangs now, messy with the effort of towel-drying. You laugh, unable to stop yourself.

“What? Oh,” she groans, once she realizes. “I’m weird-looking without it, aren’t I? But it’ll come back once it’s dry.”

“Does it just... float up like that? How does it do that?”

Zooey shrugs. “I’ve never really questioned it. It just always ends up like that, by the time I notice?” It’s an innocent enough question, but she looks unusually pensive about it. Like there’s some riddle here complicating the mundane. “Maybe,” she says, her gaze becoming faraway, “maybe some part of me is always trying to escape this gravity. Always trying to float back up.”

“Well, as long as it’s just that part.” You shake the feeling of unease, and wipe down your own hair, knowing you’re probably just going to mess it up later. “Let’s go back into the water. I’ll get used to it.”

Zooey’s face lightens in an instant. She nods rapidly, snatching your towel from your hands and running back up to your spot to set them down to make sure they stay dry. You grimace at the salt drying on your sunglasses, and follow her up to put them away as well; the glare is much worse like this, but there’s something upsetting about ruining these fancy sunglasses that Zooey spent her own money on just for you, so you decide you can deal with it.

When you head back down to the shore, squinting at the jewel-bright water, Zooey follows you as you take step by step back into the ocean, minding the drop-off. You’re up to your shoulders again in the water, but it’s much less cold this time, and Zooey outright throws herself into the next wave, laughing when the salt water hits her face. She grins at you, and you notice she’s treading water; you remember that she’s a good few inches shorter than you are, even without your heels.

“How do you keep yourself afloat like that?”

“Like this? Oh,” Zooey looks down at her feet in the water, as if she hadn’t realized she was staying afloat out of her own effort. “Um, you sort of... flutter your feet back and forth? Pushing yourself upwards... And you can use your arms too, if you start sinking.” She smiles, seemingly unbothered by the salt in her eyes. “But you can stand here, right? So you don’t need to.”

“It would be nice... to learn how to swim.”

You don’t really think about it until you say it.

“I can try to teach you. I’m not very good at it either, though. I can only do the... what do they call it? Puppy paddling...?” Zooey pushes herself back up onto the sandbar and looks out on the horizon, shielding her face with her hand as a visor. “Or... maybe we don’t _need_ to swim.” Her voice is particularly... mischievous?... when she says this.

“What do you mean?”

“Last time I was here, the Captain and Lyria and I went on water floats. We rode them on the waves and there was even a competition... We should do it! Come on,” she says excitedly, grabbing your arm and outright pulling you from the water.

“What? Water floats? What do they even do?” You struggle up out of the ocean, still sopping wet with your hoodie clinging to your skin. Zooey tugs you up to your beach spot and shoves a towel into your hands.

“Dry off, it’s easier to ride them when you’re not wet,” she insists. Thoroughly confused, you begin to dry out your hair, then your arms, but your waterlogged shirt is making it hard to stay dry for more than a few seconds. Frustratedly, you yank it over your head. The sun hits your skin, and you immediately feel embarrassed, not to mention ridiculously exposed.

“How do you even tolerate showing so much skin?” you grumble. Zooey turns back around to see you shirtless, and laughs.

“It’s so hot, I’d rather wear as little clothes as possible. Also, it would just weigh me down.” She takes the crumpled, sopping-wet orange hoodie from your hands and lays it out flat on the beach towel. “Let’s hope it dries out by the time we get back.”

“When would that be?” She’s leading you back down to the water’s edge. “And where are these water floats, anyway?”

“Look out there,” she tells you, pointing down the beach where the waves are higher and out to sea, where you can see the silhouettes of people riding the large waves on what looks like dolphins and killer whales. “They’re modeled after sea creatures, isn’t that fun? And you can race around on them. We can rent them at that cabana down there. Or...” She turns around, a somewhat proud grin on her face as she puts her hands on her hips. “We can make one ourselves!”

“How do you—”

You don’t have a chance to respond. Zooey presses her palms together and closes her eyes, but she isn’t even trying to hide the laughter in her voice. “Heed my will! Come forth, Peacemaker’s Wings!”

The blue light is a mist, at first, rising from the water and blinking into existence in the air; then it coalesces, fusing itself together into what looks less like an actual dragon and more like a vaguely dragon-shaped water float. It’s taller than both of you, and looks like it could seat multiple people. It bobs there on the shore, half on the sand and half in the water.

You look at her in disbelief, then look at the float, then back at her.

“Is it really okay to use the Peacemaker’s Wings like this?”

“Well, it’s not actually the Peacemaker’s Wings. It’s just a fragment of my power— sort of like my dragons are. Grand Order would get mad at me if I used the actual Peacemaker’s Wings.” She giggles, then grabs the reins attached to its back and begins to pull it along the surf, down the beach where other wave-riders are gathered. It floats along the shallow water, large and clumsy and strangely adorable. You can’t believe you just thought of a water float as adorable.

The sun is beginning to fall, but it’s nowhere near night yet. Instead, the lovely yellow light dances off the waves and floods your vision. You squint into the distance, and regret not bringing your sunglasses.

“Wait, shouldn’t we go back and get our bag?” You turn to look back at your towel-campsite, fading further and further away as Zooey walks on and you unwittingly follow. “Someone might steal it.”

“Don’t be silly, no one’s going to steal it.”

“You’re too naive. I’m going back to get it. Those sunglasses are in there, anyway, and you got those for me, so I’d rather not lose them.”

“Hehe.” Zooey turns to look at you, her smile radiant and a little bashful. “That’s sweet. Do they mean that much to you?”

It takes a moment to sink in, what you had said and how she interpreted it— and then you quickly backpedal. “No, don’t be ridiculous, I just don’t want you wasting your money, you’re going to need that for other things—”

Zooey just looks at you knowingly, as if she’s challenging you to say that again. You know you won’t get anywhere like this; you turn and run back to retrieve the bag.

 

* * *

 

You catch up with Zooey near the float rental cabana. The water looks much shallower here, and there’s a sandbar going out into the ocean where the larger waves crash. You notice people standing further out to sea— your eyes are still blurred from squinting and from the salt and sunscreen, so you can’t really tell what they’re doing.

“I can’t see. What are those people out there standing on?” you ask Zooey. She hums and looks out to sea with you, shading her face with her hand.

“It looks like... some sort of rock outcrop. Maybe that’s how people get on the large waves so far out? They swim over there and jump off the island on their floats. It looks like fun.”

“It looks dangerous, is what it is.”

“You’re a fun killer.” Zooey half-pouts and crosses her arms. “How else are they supposed to do it? Swimming out there with those huge waves... it would just wash them and their floats back to shore.”

“You have a point,” you sigh. “That’s what we’re going to be doing, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe you’ve roped me into this. All right,” you concede, because she looks actually sad at the prospect that you might not come with her, and this looks— admittedly, despite all your rational mind’s insistence on the contrary— more than a little fun. “Bring your dragon float, and let’s go. We’re going to show those skydwellers how it’s done.”

Zooey grins at your new enthusiasm. She attempts to raise a fist in the air and cheer, but her face goes bashful halfway through, and she drops her hand and hides them both behind her back, clearly embarrassed at her own failed attempts to act like a “normal” girl.

“Hehe. That’s what I like to hear,” she says instead. You look at her searchingly.

“You know, you don’t have to pretend to be like them. You’re fine the way you are.”

Her head snaps up and she blinks at you, startled, before she breaks into a gentle smile, and looks down at her feet, tugging the Peacemaker’s Float behind her with a bashful gait.

“You’re right,” she admits, with a sad little smile. “I keep trying to be like the other girls I see, but I don’t feel quite right. What do normal girls act like? That’s what I’ve been wondering...”

Her insistence confuses you. Her need to be something _else,_ something more ordinary than the strange and kind and powerful being she is, doesn’t quite make sense. She may not be the Grand Order itself anymore, but she is still a shining fragment of its power taken form, a star that glows in the hand.

“Why would you want to be normal?”

Her kindness is an aura, a shroud of strength around her that sets her apart. No one can corrupt her, no one can ruin that purity of heart; she floats when she walks, her smile brings peace wherever she goes, and everyone that surrounds her pales in the face of her light. That may not be normal. That may separate her from others. But that is what makes Zooey the person she is, and if being normal means that aura of mystery and serenity is to be discarded, then—

“I don’t want you to dull the way you shine just to fit in with skydwellers. We may not be like them, but I don’t want to. We see the world through different eyes... and we can’t change that.” You stop on the sandbar, your feet sinking up to the ankles into the wet sand, and turn to look at her. Her face is questioning, cast in half-shadow from where the sun alights on her back, and you see her hand grip the reins of the water float tighter. “We can get along with skydwellers without denying who and what we are. That’s what I’ve come to believe.”

Zooey doesn’t say anything. But something changes in her expression. She closes her eyes in a long, slow sort of trusting blink. When she opens them, there is a new resolve there. The very subtle shifting of her face, the weight of her eyelids, the slight lowering of her eyebrows. You wonder when you became so adept at reading her, at noticing every change in her demeanor and understanding what it means.

“I... want to be a person,” she finally says.

“You have been.” You rest your hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go ride your float.”

 

There are already other people up there, on the outcrop of rock and sand that marks the departure point into the waves. Some of them balk at the edges, obviously timid first-timers, while others launch themselves off the sides with their dolphin-shaped floats and pierce the water with wild abandon. Zooey is somewhere between “excited second-timer” and “either absolutely reckless or brilliantly naive,” and you’re, of course, not very sure about this whole thing, seeing as you can’t actually swim. All things considered, it might not be actually dangerous— you can fly, after all, even if you can’t stay afloat in the water you could easily make it back to shore— but you’re still understandably apprehensive.

“So you get on the float,” Zooey is explaining over the chatter of a few very obnoxious Erune boys nearby, “and I’ll hold the reins and then push off with my foot and hop on. That way, we get enough momentum to propel us further out to catch the wave.”

“Fine. Don’t slip. And be careful of the barnacles with your bare feet,” you warn her, but she doesn’t seem to care. You perch the float on the edge of the rock where it meets the water, carefully stepping around the sharp white patches of barnacles, and let Zooey hold onto the reins while you climb onto its back and settle against its long neck. It’s easy to hold onto like this, and something about it feels soothing. You’re dimly aware of a quiet presence, something so faint you could be imagining it: the sensation of gentle blue feathers brushing against your forearms. You bury your face into the back of its neck. It squishes back against you with its own force, as any inflatable pool toy would do.

“Okay, I’m getting on, so get ready!”

You almost turn around at the sound of Zooey’s voice, but before you can even look, you’re suddenly lurching forward, gliding alone into the water for a single fretful moment before the Peacemaker’s Float gives a loud plastic squeaking noise and the weight of Zooey behind you and against you propels you forward. She’s laughing as she hands you the reins and wraps her arms around your waist instead, clinging tight and pressing your combined weight forward so as to keep your momentum as you ride out far enough from the outcrops to catch the larger waves.

“See? It’s not so bad,” she says, her voice a happy breath against your shoulder. “Okay, now pull on the reins with your right hand to turn us.”

You do so, and the float responds, turning until it faces the beach. Zooey leans into you insistently, shifting her weight and propelling the float forward. You’re aware of the drawing back of something behind you, tilting Zooey further onto you, but you can’t look back, you can’t predict when it’s going to break, and your core rises into your throat in anticipation— and then, in a thrill of cold sweat and fear, the wave behind you finally swells and you are launched forward over the crest of it.

It’s amazing how smoothly it glides, how easily it cuts through the water when the weight and momentum is just right. You and Zooey are balanced perfectly on the wave before it breaks, and you are briefly reminded of the sensation of takeoff, the first few precious flaps of wings, all the effort sending you rocketing upwards and forwards in a burst of cathartic movement. You feel open to the wind, to the spray of salt; a strange shout wells up in your throat and heaves itself out. You don’t remember ever feeling the need before to make that kind of sound, but it feels right.

Zooey cheers as you ride the wave until it starts to curl under itself, propelling you to shore. There’s wind in your hair and sun in your eyes and you can see the specks of light in each droplet of seawater glimmering like thousands of little round jewels. You feel yourself laughing, but you barely hear it over the crashing of the wave as it carries you in towards the welcoming sand, and Zooey’s arms tighten around you and you can feel the vibrations of her own voice against your back. You don’t need to look at her to tell what she’s feeling. You hear it as clear as the water below you: _I’m happy when you’re happy._

 

* * *

 

By the time the sun is starting to set, your arms hurt from pulling the reins, your back stings with what feels like a sunburn, your eyes are sore and dazzled from the sun, and your face aches from being twisted into unexpected expressions. Both you and Zooey are looking a little worse for wear, and when you catch her eye, dragging the Peacemaker’s Float behind you with an absolutely exhausted look on your face, she laughs apologetically; she’s a mess in her own right, dark skin prickled with a red sunburn over her nose and under her eyes, her hair tousled and tangled in clumps of drying salt.

“Let’s go home,” you tell her.

“Without eating?”

 

* * *

 

Auguste is full of expensive restaurants, with ocean views and mosaic terraces and grilled bonito steaks on the menu, but both you and Zooey are drawn to the more simple things in life. There are always cookouts on the beach in the evening, all you can eat for a flat price; people grilling just-caught fish over open firepits, cracking open coconuts straight from the trees above, wooden bowls full of fresh fruit and vegetables. A few divers come out of the water with what looks like conches and scallops. Ten minutes later, those same shellfish are served as ceviche, drenched in lime juice with other white fish and chopped cilantro.

You grab a seat at one of the beach tables and set down the bag to keep your spot. The buffet around you is bustling with activity; natives and tourists both come to enjoy the cuisine, fresh and authentic, a sort of tradition before the day winds down. There’s so many options you don’t even know where to start. Zooey grabs your hand and pulls you away from the safety of your seats into the line of people at the buffet tables.

“Look, look! They just caught those fish, and now they’re grilling them... isn’t that amazing?” Zooey’s voice is high and breathy with excitement. “And look at that! They made a sculpture out of fruit!” She points gleefully at an arrangement of fresh fruit, pineapple carved to look like a blooming flower, kebab sticks protruding from the center like the stamens of a hibiscus, stacked with melons of all colors. You hum in agreement, while she leans over and grabs one. Then two. Then with her other hand another two. You give her a skeptical look; she just grins up at you, already taking a bite off the watermelon chunk at the top.

“You didn’t need to get _four_ kebabs.”

“Balance,” Zooey mutters, with her mouth full, as if it explains absolutely everything. “ _Equilibrium_.”

“ _You_ should talk.” You take one of your own, unable to resist. “Just eating fruit isn’t going to fill you up. We should get... fish, or meat, or something.”

“Fish... yes. Let’s go get some fish!” Zooey’s eyes twinkle. She’s still eating the melon off her fruit skewer, tilting it sideways and then tilting her head sideways, unable to figure out how to keep it from falling off. You poke her cheek. She squints at you. “What?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you seem to eat a lot?”

“Um... no. But now that I think about it, I do, don’t I?” She smiles bashfully. “I don’t think I ever needed to eat, before. Maybe now I do? But skydweller food is so... fascinating. I always want to try new things.”

“I suppose I can understand that, what with my taste for coffee.” You follow Zooey to where the fish are being grilled— covered in sea salt then placed on sticks against an open fire until the skin chars. “Do you ever feel full? It would be nice to be able to eat as much as you’d like, but...”

“I’m not sure. I only really stop when I’ve run out or when it’s not suitable for me to eat any more. Should I be feeling full?” Zooey shrugs, then reaches over to the table where skewers of grilled fish are being taken straight off the spit. “I’ll just try these ones... and maybe the shrimp.” You watch as she acquires yet another two kebabs. Somehow, she’s already finished two of the melon ones, and has been toting around the empty sticks for a while.

“Here, give me those, I’ll throw them away.” You take the bamboo skewers. They’re sharp on the ends, and you find yourself worrying that she or someone else might get stabbed if she were to be careless with them. “Pass me one, too, will you?”

“Of course.”

The chef behind the table who is busy transferring the kebabs from the fire to the table turns back around to find five of his creations missing, and you hear him laugh heartily as you walk away. Zooey is still frolicking around the buffet tables, taking anything particularly colorful or eye-catching or good-smelling, until you can’t hold on to her anymore because she has her hands full with plates, cups, kebabs, and all sorts of dishes. “Come on, let’s sit down,” you urge her, nibbling half-heartedly at a shrimp skewer she had given to you to try.

“But there’s so much to try, and so much to look at... I want to eat it all,” Zooey says, finally following you back to your table and setting down the assortment of food she’s brought with her. When she looks down at the table, the realization seems to sink in. “Oh. This is a lot. Share with me?”

“I’m not sure how much I’ll eat, but... all right.”

You’ve never really enjoyed eating. Your body may be only a semblance of a human form, not quite mortal or prone to sickness, but you were still made to feel discomfort if you hadn’t eaten for a long enough time, as if that was some sort of handicap. As such, it always felt like a chore rather than a pleasure; the only thing you’ve ever truly enjoyed tasting is coffee. But since returning, you’ve been introduced to more flavors, more textures that feel right to your mouth, that don’t feel like sand going down. You pick apart the fish on the skewer; the meat is juicy, pungent in a savory sort of way, salt and ocean and crispy skin. It isn’t bad. None of this is bad, really. Zooey smiles at you, seeing you try it; you avert your eyes.

It’s interesting that Zooey has only been among skydwellers for less than a year, and yet— she knows more than you in so many categories. Food, fashion, the ocean, how to swim. She has absorbed herself into the world of skydwellers, found fascination in everything around her. You aren’t like her. You will never be— you will never meet the world with such starry eyes. Everything has already been poisoned, in a way; given a bitter aftertaste you will never be rid of.

But sometimes, just sometimes, you wish— you could look at the world the way she does, and see it with all its strange possibilities, and not want to run away.

You’re getting there. Somehow. You’re getting closer to it.

 

* * *

 

On the way back down the beach, to the path into the resort, as dusk begins to truly cast its shadow and the bustle and torchlights of the beach buffet fade behind you, you encounter an all-too-familiar duo sitting together on spread-out beach towels. Orchid is a little further down near the water line, building sandcastles out of wet sand and then sealing their forms by sprinkling dry sand over them. The ridiculous cat plush she loves so much sits there in the sand beside her. Apollonia watches her, only an arm’s length away on her own towel, cradling her head in her hands as she observes Orchid’s stuttering movements.

When Orchid sees you, she raises one hand slowly and makes a stiff waving gesture. Her voice is quiet, but the beach is so quiet that you can hear her still. “Sandalphon,” she says, as you approach, and then her eyes drift over to Zooey beside you. “And Zooey. Hello.”

“You remembered my name,” Zooey says, happily, leaning down to examine Orchid’s work. “How is your sandcastle going?”

“Good,” Orchid says. “But I keep getting sand in my joints.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the matter-of-fact tone she uses. Zooey looks a little more worried. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s like having a pebble in your shoe. Just annoying.” Orchid pats down the sides of her main turret, then takes a fistful of dry white sand and lets it rain down onto it.

“I told her it would happen,” Apollo says. “But she seems to be having fun nonetheless.”

You turn to Orchid. “Won’t your cat get dirty if you leave it in the sand?”

Orchid looks up at you, half-confused, half-guilty. “Oh. I… didn’t think about that. I hope he doesn’t mind.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” Zooey assures her. “He’s probably happy he got to go on an adventure with you.”

“Why are you two out here so late anyway?” you ask.

Orchid shrugs. “I like building sandcastles.”

Apollo shifts up and opens her mouth to speak. Then Orchid blinks, as if she’s remembered something.

“And also. There’s going to be a meteor shower tonight,” she says, moving her toes around in the sand. “Apollo told me. The stars come down when Ifrit changes form.”

“Is that why the water-element teams are away?” Zooey asks her.

“I... think so. Because he’s making trouble. In the sky, too.”

“I wouldn’t call a meteor shower _trouble_.” You blink. Zooey, however, stares at you, as if she thinks otherwise.

“You two.” Apollo addresses you, in her firm, stern contralto. “They are called the Ifrids. If you know where to look, they’re a divine sight. I heard this from Arusha. East of the meridian, from the constellation Ifrit.”

“How many degrees above the horizon?” Zooey pipes up. Apollo fixes her with a long, intrigued look.

“She said 70 degrees at the peak. It will move, though."

“Ah, so... like this?” Zooey points her right arm directly towards the horizon, then draws her left arm at an angle, the tips of her fingers approximating the measurement. “But it’ll move, of course, the longer the night goes on... Okay. I understand.” Her voice seems a tone grave. This doesn’t go over Apollo’s head; she narrows her eyes at Zooey, but doesn’t say anything. You watch as she drops her arms and a look of— sorrow? loneliness?— crosses her face.

“Good to know,” you tell the pair. Apollo nods silently. Orchid raises Mr. Marmalade up to you, eyes wide in an unspoken question, and you sigh and reach a hand out to pet its head. “Take care, then.”

 

“It’s as if you’re preparing for battle,” you tell Zooey, as you walk away from their encampment. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It used to be,” she says, vague as ever. You furrow your brows at her. “I want to see them, though. Let’s stay until the night comes.”

You nod, pacing further down the beach, until Orchid and Apollo are only darkened shapes. The dusk shifts into a deeper blue; you see the first star awaken just above the sea, at the edges of the island, where the water spills over into endless waterfalls and disappears far below. Noises fade. Lights in the distance flicker into life. The crickets hiding in the dune grasses chime some erratic symphony. You stop, pace down to the waves’ edge, and lean back to sit and then lie out across the sand, your feet just high enough to keep the water from washing over them. Zooey follows your lead, settling down next to you. This kind of ground shifts to fit you, though the rasp of sand against your sunburned back is less than pleasant. You look up, and wait.

“Where is it supposed to be again?”

“About… hmm… this far up from the horizon,” Zooey mumbles, then raises her arm to point. It’s a little lower down than 90 degrees, so you have to tilt your neck up to monitor it.

Or you _think_ you do, until you see the first streak of light. The air shifts. The night feels suddenly still.

The only thing you can hear now is the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sandalphon's outfit is loosely based off [this drawing](https://twitter.com/moumomilk/status/998361453005438976) thanks ao3 user lucisan for drawing sanchan in his rightful cat attire


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "from what we cannot hold the stars are made." - w.s. merwin
> 
> this is what i wrote first so sorry if it seems detached. it's where i've been leading up to though with a focus on zooey's own worries and troubles which is rare but necessary i think for them. sandalphon finally gets to return the favor. it's good.
> 
> i made up the lore about meteor showers and constellations being named after primals and i thought it was interesting but *shrug* who really knows. also i want to know: in the gbf universe, if you went to the edge of an island at night and looked down, would you see stars below your own horizon line? where do they end?

This is the thing about meteor showers: they say they _should_ be originating from a certain constellation, but they’re much more erratic than that, in actuality. They also don’t tell you that you cannot, in fact, watch the entire sky all at once, and yet that unfocusing your field of vision will make the meteors you see much less brilliant, leave much less of a streak or a memory. And when observing a meteor shower with someone _else_ , this wide distribution makes it hard to see the same one at the same time. You are learning that this is less of a shared experience, and more of a game of catch-up. _Did you see that one? No, where was it? It was all the way over there, you probably didn’t catch it. Oh, there’s one! I didn’t see it,_ back and forth and back and forth until your eyes are tired.

The Ifrids are supposed to be just a little east of the meridian, at 70 degrees in the sky— but they’re coming from everywhere, not just Ifrit, and you’ve seen a few just above the horizon line, where Corow rises. It always feels strange, to look at the stars and remember that so many of these constellations are named after primal beasts like yourself, sometimes even primals you have met and fought before. _For a society that seems to fear and dread us so much, skydwellers can come pretty close to worshipping us sometimes,_ you think.

The appearance of the Ifrids is also a harbinger, Orchid had mentioned, of Ifrit itself going through its yearly metamorphosis into a more complete and more powerful form. The Singularity is probably bustling around the ship right now, doing evening training with Katalina and dragging the tactician out of his study and trying to get that flamboyant Erune mercenary to shut _up_ for one moment, and you feel sorry for them, but you’re quite glad it’s not you. Right now, you and Zooey can relax, listen to the sound of the waves and the last cries of the seagulls, and forget about your duties for a little while. You lie next to her on the beach, toes close enough to the water that you can feel the wet sand beneath them. Today has been… a day, and even if the meteor shower so far has been nothing but a glorified game of vision tag, you’re glad to have the chance to lie down, if anything.

“When do you think they’ll get back?” Zooey hums, questioningly. “We’ve been here for two days, but I saw the receipts and it was for a week. Are they really going to be away for that long?”

“The meteor shower lasts for a week, so I’d think the Xeno phase does as well. But I can’t imagine they wouldn’t get what they need in just a few days, and the shower’s already at its peak.” You shrug. The crew’s plans often go over your head, when they’re not involving you. “If it takes that long, though, that means we have the whole rest of the week off.”

“Do you think they’re fighting right now?”

“It’s nighttime, so probably not. Why, are you getting anxious?”

“It feels a little strange to be separated,” Zooey admits with a quiet laugh. “I can’t help but worry. It’s always been my job to look after everyone, and now that I can’t sense and observe quite like I used to, I feel... detached. It’s a little scary.”

“Mm. I’m sure they’re all fine, though,” you say, looking at her where she’s watching the sky, then looking back up. “You know what they’re like. The Singularity literally cannot let anyone die, they’re that determined.”

“You keep calling them that,” she points out. “Didn’t they tell you not to?”

“Only when they’re not around and I don’t know how they’re presenting. When they’re here, it makes more sense to call them by their name, but... from far away, they’re more like a concept,” you explain.

“A little like Grand Order,” Zooey nods. “Or like me, before.”

“Exactly.”

She seems to understand, but the air shifts, as if dampened by a slight sadness. And it is at this moment that a particularly bright meteor streaks by, right within your field of vision, seeming almost slow with the thickness of its trail. You take in a breath reflexively, just as Zooey gasps and her hand shoots up to point it out— it burns itself into your eyes, then winks out of existence, leaving her pointing at nothing, a dark place where that light had once flared.

“You saw it too,” she breathes.

“I did.”

You’re still reeling from it. The trail it left was so bright, so wide, and you close your eyes to see its presence still burned into your retinas, lingering much longer than the actual meteor did. You’ve never seen anything like it before.

“It was so bright, even from here,” she marvels. “It must have been huge up close. So large that it took a while to burn...” Her voice goes airy and deep, almost nostalgic in its reverence, and it makes you realize—

“You’ve never seen them from this far away, have you?”

“No. Whenever I saw them, they were always so close. They hurtled through me and past me. It was me— or Grand Order, I suppose— that burned them up. We were everything, back then. And we reduced the meteors to nothing, because we knew if we didn’t, there would be disaster. If we did not grate against them with everything we had— if the friction of our will was not enough— then chaos would also descend.”

You imagine it, for a moment— chunks of some broken star, at speeds you can barely fathom, each one a threat to the world you have come to love. A fragile body becoming the resistance which guards the only livable layer of your sky. By burning everything, by reducing metals yet unknown to this world into dust, then scattering it wide as a warning to anything else that would dare invade your atmosphere. And doing this over and over again. Even more so, in these rare few days every couple of months, where meteors rain down as plentiful as souls, originating from a constellation that from that height becomes nothing more than a jumble of disconnected stars.

When Zooey breathes, the world shifts with her. Cool water touches your toes. You can feel the tides change. The moon is sharp, a sliver of itself, shining just low enough to let the stars emerge. There is sand in your hair, clinging to every surface of you.

You wonder how long one night can last.

“But from here, they just look like quiet streaks of light. Little glimmers of hope.” She pauses, then breathes out, long and slow like it’s the first breath she’s ever taken. “They look beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t really need to. In the corner of your vision, another star streaks by, then disappears.

“I wonder how Grand Order is doing.” Zooey’s voice is almost sad, when she says this. You find her hand in the sand between you, and fold it into yours.

“It’s most likely fine. It always is.” You turn your head to her. Your cheek presses into the sand; some grit clings to the corner of your lips, and you grimace. “I don’t think you have to worry.”

“I wonder if it can see me like this. It must be lonely up there…”

“You said it yourself, though— you were everything, back then.” You stop, unsure how to word the thought, or express the curiosity in a way that can be understood, that can be answered.

_Is it possible to be lonely when you are never just one?_

That gives Zooey pause. You feel her stutter, then the flow reconnects to a different synapse, an entirely new point of view. The stars shift, and so does the air, and the wave. You wonder if she understands her influence even now.

(You wonder if it might just be you.)

_I think… we were never lonely, before. We were everyone, and everything, all at once, so we didn’t have a concept of what it meant to be singular. But then when we came down, and walked on this earth, and met other people… we understood what ‘I’ meant. We learned of that divide. I was the part that never forgot about it— that couldn’t put it aside. So maybe I’m the only one who would consider it lonely. You might be right, then. Grand Order… never feels alone, probably._

Her thoughts are mildly disjointed, and you can still feel the fog around her concept of self, around what parts of the past are her own and what belongs now to Grand Order. She keeps fluctuating between singular and plural, between particle and wave, and you can feel the massive question behind it, the bulk of the unknown that surrounds the words ‘I’ and ‘we.’ You know this will take a while, for the fog to settle and the waveform to collapse. The paradox will never be resolved, but eventually it can be pushed away, disregarded and divided from her new self; a floating celestial body made of its own question, separated from Zooey by an asteroid belt, by so many lightyears worth of stars.

_When I first met you… how much of that person was Zooey, and how much was Grand Order? Who was it that broke that wall? Who was it that left?_

Zooey’s answer is in pieces, fragments of self-questioning, loops of thought that you have to break before puzzling them out. _We were us, always,_ she says first. Then, _all of its memories were mine, until we split._ Then static at the idea of _it_ and _mine_ , the interference— _the first time we came down we weren’t Zooey yet. I wasn’t here until we knew qualia, until we understood perception… then all perception from all souls that was ours as Grand Order collapsed into one and then that was me. We were Zooey… no, I was… and then we ascended and I was not. I…_

You catch glimpses of it, like the shooting stars in the corners of your vision. The feeling of spreading out, of eyes everywhere, of millions of wishes absorbed into one body, the tug of a heart. Senses in places unseen, places thrown into shadow. The world is cruel, hopeful, beautiful, yours to subjugate, yours to protect, evil, ideal, worthless, lovable, and every single person you know is everything to everyone else all at once.

_I wanted to be a person. It did not. But I was being selfish, and we felt a wish pull us down._

A web of perception and relation and variance of soul. All collapsing into one vision, two eyes, a singularity in its own right. Condensing of every color into one, of the great network folding itself into a cube, heavier than a world.

_And then we were here, but I was mostly… it was mostly me, at that point. You met Zooey. When we communicated like this, I’m not sure. I think we were both Zooey. Or the voice was Zooey and the thoughts were Grand Order. I got more attached, and it became more frantic._

Before they are inseparable, before the joints fuse into one another, the pull upwards, the dissolution of self. It unfolds into a veil, then duplicates, then condenses the second veil, creates a body, a set of qualia, a barrier between itself and others, wraps her into the center of something silver and glowing and sends it off into the world, into two warm hands.

_Then I was just me. I remember being Grand Order, every moment of us, but… not connected anymore, to form new memories as myself, and it will continue to record its history of everything, and I can no longer read its language. I feel bad for leaving it behind. Sometimes, I reach up to it. Sometimes, I wish for a piece of it, to remind me that we were once one. And a Peacemaker Star falls into my palm._

The link falls silent, then. You feel like you know things you shouldn’t. Like you have experienced something that cannot possibly exist.

Her presence withdraws, as if she can sense it’s too much. Something in you feels empty.

“I think about it so often. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m guilty of some horrible sin.” The outline of her face is sharp, and you can see sorrow in it. Her eyes close; her voice shakes, slightly. “I’ve become selfish, I think.”

“You’re guilty of nothing. It wanted this for you,” you remind her, stroking over the ridge of her thumb, the way she always does to you.

“Even if that’s true… I don’t know what to do with it.” She doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the way the air changes at your touch. “For as long as I remember, I’ve only been sure of one thing. That everything down here is temporary. That one day, I’d have to let go of it all. I always existed like that.”

She can say it out loud, you notice; the idea of _I_ feels much more solid when spoken.

“I lived, and loved, yes, but… I don’t think I ever allowed myself to become close, the way that skydwellers do. But now it’s not temporary, it doesn’t have to be temporary anymore, and so I...”

You keep your mouth closed and watch Zooey watch the sky. You watch her face as her eyes widen, like she’s trying to see more, understand more, let in all the light she can. Then they close, gently and slowly, eyelids trembling as they fall shut.

And then something strange happens. You watch a tear collect at the corner of her eye closest to the sand, that place that wrinkles when she smiles. And you see it slide down her face like another shard of a star. Her doubts, laid bare against the waves. The new fears, the new bonds, all exposed.

“Are you crying?” you ask, voice low, keeping yourself gentle. Zooey’s expression shifts into surprise, then timidity, then a sad little laugh.

“Am I? I didn’t notice. I suppose I am.” The slight, wan smile she gives, against the flood of starlight that shadows her face, falls flat in the face of her tears. “What’s happening to me? This emotion… what do you call it? Is it fear? It feels like it’s more than that.”

“I’m not sure. Let me…”

You reach out to her again. Her voice in your head is less a voice than a sensation.

_It feels like my hand is reaching out for something that I can’t retrieve. It feels like my heart is constricting. Like I’m holding something new and glowing in my hands that I know I should cherish, but I’m so afraid to touch it. It feels like emerging from a forest and looking out onto an infinite horizon, a perfect view; and I know it’s beautiful, I know I should marvel at it, that I should be excited, but… all I feel is a shrinking. Like everything else in me is telling me to fade back into that darkness. To just waste it, even after I came all this way…_

What she says, what she feels— it shakes you. Because you have felt this before. Given this world, given these wings. And you know this is more than fear. This is more than just anxiety. This is grief. And more than that…

“I’m supposed to be happy, aren’t I?” Zooey looks at you, her gaze pleading, tearful. “So then why…”

“If all you’ve ever known is a void, of course you’re going to grieve for it when you’re surrounded by light.” You sigh, turn your face back up to the sky. “It’s not as easy as just accepting the good thing you’ve been given. You’re afraid, because it’s not what you know, but… you also feel like this doesn’t belong to you. Like this shouldn’t be yours. And trying to tell yourself that you should be happy is only going to make you feel guilty. It’s no better than yelling at an open wound to try to get it to close.”

You feel the pulse between you change, as the realization grows within her. You extend that part of your heart to her; you tell her to take it, and she does, and you _feel_ her understand.

“This… is what you felt then, wasn’t it?”

“What I still feel, even now.”

Her eyes are too kind. There are still tears, and you feel the urge to reach over and wipe them away, but you don’t quite want to let go of her hand.

 _Don’t force yourself,_ you tell her, because saying it out loud is too much for you, even after all this time. _Let it sink in; give it time to bloom, to feel okay with it. Give yourself time to grieve the loss of the things you thought you knew. Light a candle for that existence. Then rebuild._

She pauses, to let the concepts linger between you, then settle, before she speaks.

“You sound like me,” Zooey says, a little humored. “To think that you’d be giving me the same advice I gave you, back then.”

The corner of your mouth turns up in a resigned sort of smile. “I learned a lot from you, you know.”

“It seems so. Now it’s my turn to learn from you. You’ll teach me how to be a person, won’t you?”

You scoff. “I barely know how to be a person myself.”

Her laugh at that rings lovely within you.

“But we can learn together,” you assure her. “We _are_ learning together. Just like you said.”

“Mm. I did say that, didn’t I?” She smiles, her eyes closing, letting the last of the tears escape. “You’re always using my words against me.”

“You need to listen to yourself sometimes too.”

She gives you the Zooey pout— the one that isn’t exactly a traditional pout, but the unexaggerated kind you can recognize just by the deadset look in her eyes, the tilt of her eyebrows and the very slight prominence of her bottom lip. A particularly courageous wave washes onto the shore, all the way up to your ankles, and it’s high enough that it apparently makes contact with Zooey’s toes, garnering a little startled yelp before she dissolves into a fit of breathy giggles.

“What’s so funny?” You raise your eyebrows at her. She kicks her legs, sending a glob of wet sand flying back into the ocean, and unfortunately scattering some of it onto her own shin, which manages to get a laugh out of both of you.

“I don’t know, it just caught me off guard? It’s colder than I expected,” she says. “And now there’s sand on my leg.”

“There’s sand _all over_ you,” you point out.

“Really?”

She cranes her neck up to observe, and the fact that she actually looks _surprised_ about this makes you want to bury your face in your hands. You settle for using your free hand to pinch the bridge of your nose instead— it gives about the same effect. “Yes, really.”

Her head drops back down onto the sand next to yours. She lets out a long, relieved sigh. The moon is high; the tide washes up to the arch of your foot consistently now. But the shower of stars is still visible, and still in full swing. You watch the sky, still unable to look everywhere at once, and every so often a meteor streaks by in your peripheral vision, too quick to truly experience.

“Is it really okay for me to be like this? I’m allowed to be… this?” The question is not asked, but you can hear it still. _Is this really enough?_

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I imagine the rest of the crew feels the same, as well.” You squeeze her hand. Her fingers tighten around yours. “Of course this is enough.”

Zooey hums, quiet and reassured. Unable to really answer with words, you know. It’s more than enough; she’s done the same for you. But the comfortable silence barely lasts five seconds before she makes a surprised little sound and flails her other hand excitedly in the sand. “Did you see that one?”

You did not see that one. You do, however, see one closer to the horizon, a thin and lovely streak of light arcing across stars. You tell her this, and she sighs, disappointed.

“I suppose that’s one thing I miss about being Grand Order. I could see all the stars, all at once.”

You chuckle. You’ve always admired her resilience, her quick recovery. “That sounds convenient.”

“You probably could, as well. With enough practice.” She prods your leg with her foot. It’s wet and covered in sand.

“I’m not sure that’s in the handbook,” you tease.

“Yes it is, it’s on page, um, 750? Section fifteen?” she tries, pursing her lips to hold back a flood of laughter. “Under the heading, _On Utilizing Higher Fields Of Perception?_ ”

“You’re the worst. There _is_ no handbook.”

The clear bell of Zooey’s laughter, you notice, sounds a little like a shooting star looks: a bright, delicate streak of glasslike light against the darkened sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> qualia (n): the internal and subjective component of sense perceptions, arising from stimulation of the senses by phenomena.  
> or, in a sense, the individual and subjective instances of how each person perceives something sensorily. the boundaries between self and others; the set of experiences that define how you view the world.  
> it must be weird to be grand order and experience everything at the same time, and to not have those conflict with each other. only in descending in a human form does that wide variance compile and condense. if it doesn't make any sense to you, that's okay. it doesn't make sense to zooey either.
> 
> thanks for reading


End file.
